


The Dizziness of the Fall

by jaimeykay, mariahlee, Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2012, Breathplay, F/F, F/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Season: four, Sex in a possessed body, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariahlee/pseuds/mariahlee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was supposed to be a random hook up, no strings attached, like the good old times. But she's different: he shouldn't follow her; her eyes are filled with promises he doesn't think he can keep. There's something about her touch, something familiar, something that strips him bare and leaves him vulnerable, and he can't find it in himself to say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dizziness of the Fall

She’s a pretty little thing. All swagger and smiles and long hair pulled back in a bun. Alastair stares at her from the eyes of a lumberjack, sees her wider smile when she pours Dean his drink. He knows she likes what she sees when her eyes darken. Knows Dean is at his most beautiful like this, forlorn and rejected and begging kindness with his eyes. 

Alastair hasn’t coveted a human vessel for a long time, but now he can't resist.

*

The bar is full of smoke.

Dean doesn't even blink as he makes his way back from the restroom, shouldering past a game of darts that could potentially turn ugly in about thirty minutes. He logs that away, checks for the heavy hitters, and continues on to the bar. It's not too busy; regulars congregate on one end, chatting up one of the bartenders. He pours them doubles, pauses, and tops them off, earning some friendly slaps to the shoulder. Three girls sit in the middle, huddled together, laughing, and a few seats down, eyes glued to his phone, is his brother.

His stronger, better hunter of a brother.

There's a brief moment when he imagines himself turning and walking away, leaving the Impala, no destination in mind, but like he always does he shoves it away and lifts his heavy feet back to Sam.

"Took your time," Sam says, looking a little guilty as he shoves his phone back inside his pocket. Dean averts his eyes, pretending not to notice.

"Long line."

Sam snorts and takes a drink of his beer. "Sure."

Dean throws back the rest of his, three fingers of CC, and pushes the glass forward.

"Same?" The other bartender says, picking it up with carefully manicured fingers when he nods. She had introduced herself as _Lee, sugar,_ when they sat at the bar. Her dark brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands loose around her face. Light make-up, red tank top, tight, dark jeans. Just the type of woman he'd go for, and by the soft graze of his wrist when she turned away to refill his glass, it seems clear that she's receptive to him.

"She's pretty," Sam comments lightly, tapping his beer with his fingertips. 

"Uh huh," Dean draws out. "Go for it, man."

"I didn't mean -" Sam begins, then: "I thought -" he shakes his head and stays quiet.

Dean's glass is set back in front of him gently. "You hungry?" Lee asks, frowning. "You look like you could use something good to eat."

Dean makes a show of looking around the bar. "Good?" he drawls. 

She laughs. "Okay, maybe not good, but something. You like burgers? Chicken? Because if you're a vegetarian, you're fresh out of luck."

He wants to smile, but his lips don't cooperate. "Uh, thanks. I'm good now, though."

She shrugs. “Lemme know if you change your mind, sugar,” she says as she turns around, offering him a playful swagger of her wide hips, and a flip of her glossy hair.

Someone gets the jukebox going right then, an explosions of drums that makes Dean jump. He shakes his head, doesn’t look Sam’s way for fear of what he’ll find there. Alcohol is a good refuge, all burning hot straight to his empty stomach when he downs it. The effect is fast, bones molding into the fake leather of the chair.

They stay like that for a while, the mirror behind the bar catching the still tableau of their faces and the silence between them. Dean averts his eyes after a while, looking for a point of contact that is not his own face, all alien and unrecognizable, and that is not Sam’s and the deep frown on his brow. 

He catches Lee on the far end of the bar staring at him; she’s mixing some blue liquor to a creamy liquid in a tall glass. She smiles an open smile and this time Dean answers, feels his lips stretching thin and awkward before they find the right bend. He raises his empty glass, nails tapping on it. _Just a sec,_ she mouths.

Even though he’s not looking at Sam, Dean feels the stiffening of his body, imagining the disapproving look in his eyes. He’s not in the mood for Sam’s crap tonight, hasn’t been since they left Bedford - and their mutual attempted fratricide - two hundred miles ago. He hopes he makes all of that clear when he finally looks Sam’s way with a raised eyebrow. The effect gets lost, though, when all he sees is the top of Sam’s head, hair falling like a curtain where he’s bent over his phone. 

Over the noise in the bar, Dean missed the beep of Sam’s cell going off. 

Sam taps a few keys - a short message, then - and flips his phone shut. There’s time for something that looks suspiciously like guilt passing over Sam’s eyes before he chases it away, and he’s standing, straight and too tall, always too tall.

It catches Dean off-guard, and he flinches. 

“You want to get wasted, be my guest, man. I’m calling it a night.” The lie rolls so easy from Sam’s lips that Dean wonders how much of a fool he’s been for not catching it before, earlier.  
“I’m taking the car,” he adds. “Wouldn’t want to see you wrapped around a pole.” 

It should have come off as biting, but there’s only sadness in Sam’s voice. Sam throws a few bills on the bartop before he turns around, no time given for a comeback, even if Dean had one.

Dean stares at Sam’s back all the way to the door, sees the moment of hesitation only because he knows where to look for it, the familiarity of Sam’s body not completely lost yet. It lasts only a second before Sam’s gone, the bang of the door mute under playful, raised voices and the loud music and the hard beat of Dean’s heart.

*

It’s dangerous, this game he’s doing, but Alastair can’t help himself. He’d worried all his hard work with Dean would go to waste when the plan would be set in motion. When he’d have to let him go. But being alive has not wiped away Alastair’s touch: it’s still branded in every curve of Dean’s body, singing in the fingers curled around the empty glass, and settled deep in the helplessness in his eyes.

He follows the girl in the backroom, takes her easily. She only screams once.

*

Dean sits for a moment, his blood screaming through his veins, a steady flow of _go go go_ , but he can’t move, it’s all too heavy, _he’s_ too heavy. He can’t add this to everything else; he can feel the string he’s clinging to and it’s frayed, ready to give at any second. Maybe if he were stronger--

Dean blows out a breath and stares at his empty glass, gripping it tightly. Probably should have been impressed that Sam stuck around as long as he did. Now that Sam took his anxiety and discomfort with him, all that’s left for Dean is lethargy: he notices how much energy it takes just to keep his head upright, his eyes open. 

“I got you,” the other bartender says, and Dean finally looks up and sees that Lee is gone. “Club, right?”

Dean nods wordlessly and twists in his seat, but he doesn’t see Lee.

“She’ll be back,” the bartender says as he sets the glass down. “Sweet on her, huh?”

“No,” Dean says without thinking. “Just - curious.” 

The bartender shrugs and grabs the remote, switching the TV behind him to a basketball game. “All right, man. Let me know if you want something to eat.”

Dean nods again but the bartender’s already gone, picking up a shaker and a martini glass and heading to the group of girls in the middle. Dean watches the game idly for a while, knocking his feet against the stool, letting his mind drift. Thankfully, the whiskey continues to do its job, the world going a little hazy around the edges, leaving him even calmer, his body even more at ease.

With Dean’s next blink his breath comes cold and he shudders suddenly, straightening. The television flickers for the briefest of moments before Kobe Bryant swishes a three-pointer, eliciting curses behind him, one of the other customers falling into Dean’s back.

“Down, boys,” Dean hears Lee drawl, and she pushes the man away from Dean and pats Dean’s neck. “Okay, sugar?”

Her fingers curl slightly and brush around his neck, her thumb running along his Adam’s apple before it slips away. He shudders again, but he’s not cold.

“Yeah,” he croaks out, then clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Her lip turns up at one corner. “Looks like you need a refill, sweetheart.” The endearment hisses out of her mouth, a soft caress. “Jake, why haven’t you been taking care of my boy, here?”

Jake answers her but Dean doesn’t hear it; the heat of Lee’s body and the smell of her perfume makes his mind hazy. His glass needs refilling again, he notices absently.

Lee slides into Sam's empty chair; Jake raises an eyebrow at her but she ignores him. "Where's your friend?" she asks, tapping the bar, like Dean would think she's talking about somebody else.

"Had better things to do."

" _Really_ ," she deadpans, lifting her foot and running it along Dean's calf. "Now, what could be better than here?"

A tingle runs down Dean's spine. "I don't know," he manages; the whiskey is making him slower, stupider. "Better company, I guess."

Lee laughs; it's deeper than he remembers. "Oh, baby. That's just not true. He's a fool if he thinks so."

An automatic defense of his brother almost slips out but he swallows it down: he's too damn tired. "Sure," he says instead, listlessly.

Lee tilts her head, pursing her lips. "What's wrong, hmm? You look -" she stops, searching for the right word - "you look lonely."

Dean shrugs, staring at Jake to refill his glass. He's not drunk enough for this, can't even remember the last time he was drunk, but he needs to keep going.

Her hand is hot on his thigh now. "It's all right," she says. "I can help you. I know how it feels to be lonely."

"Jesus," Jake mutters as he puts Dean's glass back on the bar.

Lee's voice is lower now, huskier. "I recently lost someone dear to me as well."

Dean blinks. "I haven't lost anyone," he says, his tone a little more accusatory than he'd like.

"Looks like you will be," Lee says simply. Her hand curls into a fist for a moment before she relaxes her fingers again, dragging the tips across denim. "I can see it, baby. His mind was a million miles away from the start. I think you see it, too."

"You have no clue who he is or who the fuck I am," Dean says, gripping his glass tightly. He doesn't mean to get so angry, but even the sound of her voice is enough to get his blood pumping hot.

Lee almost looks hurt, and her hand pauses before it tightens its grip. "Oh, Dean. I know you better than you think."

Her hand is molten lava on the inside of his thigh, a warmth that’s going all the way up to his groin; he’s hard already, dick pushing painfully against the tiny buttons of his jeans. Lee skims her fingertips along his length and smiles, her eyes shining dark and depthless in the dim lights of the bar. It sets his heart on beating fast, blood rushing hot to his head. 

Dean wonders if anyone else notices, if anyone else _sees_ , because he's on fire, the touch striking every nerve fiber, screaming. "Stop," he manages to mutter, but even to his ears the words sound weak, pathetic. 

“You don’t mean that,” Lee says, but her hand trails away from his cock, resting on his thigh. “Look at how you tremble under my touch, how _needy_ you are. Let me take care of you, love. Let me in.”

Her fingers stroke his side, slip under his shirt to touch bare skin, and he lets her, closing his eyes. Lee asks Jake if he’s okay to handle the bar for the rest of the night, but Dean doesn’t take it in, her touch soft yet insistent, and when she grabs his hand and tugs him off the stool, he follows her outside without thinking.

Her lips are gentle against his own, the kiss surprisingly chaste, her hands resting on his hips. “My place is free,” she whispers, backing him up until he’s flat on the hood of a car, her breath heavy on his neck, her body blanketing his. Her lips kiss his neck, his collarbone, lift his shirt and suck on his shoulder. “What do you think?”

*

It’s surprisingly easy to take this for himself. Dean’s responsive and ready under his hand - his body had never lied. The first touch of skin on Alastair’s fingers is like being back home, his dry lips warm. The girl - Lee - cowers in a corner, and her horror is the sweetest aphrodisiac. Alastair puts her to sleep, no sense in sharing what's his.

*

The cool air’s cleared Dean's brain a bit, a shock to his system after the smoky, oppressive air inside the bar. He can’t remember how he got outside, and the tiny points of Lee’s fingers against his ribs are too distracting. He shakes his head, looks heavenwards. The sky’s clear tonight, no cloud in sightl a crescent moon is hanging low over the bar like a lone apostrophe. Dean stares at it until the silver light fills his vision.

Lee’s hands are insistent and cold around his nipples, petting them softly the way he likes it, and lust is emptying his brain of any coherent thought. It’s been so long, he’s getting scared; he wants her to stop, wants her to kneel on the hard concrete of the parking lot and suck him off until his brain shuts off completely. He pushes her away. 

Voice alien to his own ears: “Got a cigarette?” he asks. He left his own in the car - the car that Sam used to disappear to God knows where - in a box under the driver seat. She smiles and produces a packet from the inside of her black jacket, together with a red plastic lighter. She shakes one out of the pack with a flick of her wrist and puts it in her mouth. The flame from the lighter dances briefly in her dark eyes, and Dean’s heart sets on beating hard against his ribcage. Her free hand splays over his chest while she drags a deep mouthful of smoke. 

She passes it to him before she’s even breathed the smoke out. The filter’s wet with her saliva and stained with her lipstick. Dean drags a deep breath himself and imagines Sam’s sour face whenever he catches Dean smoking, the litany of stats he spouts about lung cancer as if they even matter to Dean.

He drags another mouthful of acrid smoke, looks at the tip blaring red and sparkling. Beyond it, Lee’s staring at him like he’s a prize she’s just won. She dangles a keyring in the air, making the keys hanging from it tingle gently.

“I have a 6-year old bottle of whiskey at my place that will go with that perfectly,” she says. “A Christmas gift from my boss,” she adds when Dean manages to raise an eyebrow. 

“Predictable asshole?” Dean croaks on a smoke exhale.

“Nah,” she says. “Just cheap.” Her other hand is resting on the jut of his hip now, comfortable and proprietary, fingers lightly teasing the skin under his belt. Fire is spreading from that point of contact, hotter than the tip of the cigarette lapping at his finger already. He lets it fall on the ground, follows the sparks it makes when it rolls on the concrete. Lee squashes it with the tip of a booted foot.

“Let’s go,” she says, voice tingling with promises. 

Dean follows her to an old Sedan parked under a scrawny tree, a few feets away from the entrance of the bar. When he sits on the fake-leather, he lets his head loll against the headrest: eyes closed, he listens to the engine sputtering to life, lets the rocking motion and Lee’s hand, heavy on his leg, ground him.

The inside of the car smells like smoke, but sweeter than that of the bar, soothing in a way that Dean can't put his finger on. Familiar. Still, he rolls down the window, closes his eyes against the wind. Lee's hand digs into his inner thigh as she hums under her breath, a Sinatra song that steals the breath from his lungs. She pauses, then changes the tune, Pink Floyd now, and he relaxes in the chair.

"No need to be so jumpy," Lee says. She turns on her blinker with one smooth motion, turning gently. "I won't bite."

Dean doesn't answer her, remembering her lips on his neck, his collarbone, imagining her teeth biting at the skin and tugging. Her smirk is so loud he can sense it without looking at her.

Lee pulls up outside a townhouse, unbuckling her seatbelt, then she's reaching over and covering his mouth with her own, not overly demanding, just soft, effortless, like she's known him forever and is trying to re-learn every inch of him all over again. 

"Coming?" she smirks, and she's out of the car, pulling him inside, fingers digging into his hips. Doesn't bother with the lights; a distant lamp in the kitchen is enough to show the way, enough for Dean to see her pupils explode with arousal. She takes her time pulling her tank over her head, revealing inches of tan flesh with a scary precision, eyes hooded, lips turned at the corners. Her hands dip under his shirt, skim his sides; she breathes into his neck, making soft sounds that send heat straight to his belly, and his hands wrap around the small of her back. She's hot, skin on fire, and she looks up at him as she unclips her bra and lets it drop to the floor. 

"It's all right," she coos. "Let me take care of you. It'll be all right."

Dean can only stand still as she presses herself flush against him, bare skin on skin, her heart _thump thumping_ against his chest; his hands tug away her hair tie away and let a cascade of brown fall around her shoulders. Silky strands through his fingers: she smiles against his shoulder, hums, stands still, letting him touch her, letting him feel her.

Then Lee's hands slip to the button on his jeans, giving it a swift pull, almost painful, and suddenly she's dropping to her knees, her mouth on denim, on the zipper, tugging it down carefully, hands cupping his ass and pulling him even closer. She laughs at his shudder, his jeans falling down with ease, then his boxers, before he can even realize what's happening. His eyes fly open and he wants to call it off, thank you but no thank you, it's all right - then her mouth wraps around the tip of his cock, tongue playing on the slit, one hand cupping his balls and rolling them on her palm. She _worships_ him, no fingernails, no teeth, only soft kisses, hot breaths of air along his dick, and he finds himself bucking against her.

Another laugh, and now she takes him whole, relaxing her throat to take him deep, humming a song around his length while one finger circles his hole, teasing. He twitches under her touch, stills: a territory he’s not comfortable with but he’s not protesting. His cock softens, and immediately Lee fists him, pulling, coaxing it hard, mouth sucking at the tip.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, the vibration of her voice enough to make him hard once more, and he closes his eyes. Lee kisses his cock, breathes, making her way to his inner thigh. Somehow this is worse, more pleasurable, her eyelashes blinking along the soft skin, her lips smiling. “Shh,” she says, still mouthing on his thigh as she unlaces his right boot without even looking, pulling it away with one smooth motion. Cupping the heel of his foot, she dips her thumb in his sock and slides it off, tossing it away before she does the same to his other foot.

With a firm push, Dean finds himself staring at the ceiling, flat on his back; Lee’s mattress is firm, but not uncomfortably so. She doesn’t give him much time to think it over because suddenly there’s a hot mouth on his toes, kissing each one, wrapping her tongue around them as she goes.

It’s too tender, too gentle; he squirms, pulling his feet away, up on the bed. Lee laughs as she climbs up after him, trailing a finger down his chest. The nail digs into his belly suddenly, painfully. 

"Interesting scar," Lee says in a tone that Dean can't place, her eyes fixed on Castiel's handprint. 

"Long story," Dean manages, shifting underneath her, anything to draw her attention away from his bicep.

"Must be," she says, mouth thinned, eyes dark, and Dean swears she bares her teeth. "Somebody else have a claim on you?"

"No," Dean mutters, cupping her breast and twisting her nipple. She gasps, rolls her hips, but her gaze isn't on his arm anymore. She stares at him for a moment, the anger slipping off her face, the arousal taking back over.

“Freckles,” she says. There’s no color left in her eyes, only black pupils. She furrows her brow, running a hand over his scar-free shoulder. Then, again, to herself: “freckles.”

*

He learns Dean's new scents of cheap soap and humid skin and bitter precome. Bares skin gleaming with sweat from navel to chest. The brown dots on Dean's shoulders distract him. There are so many, way more than he remembers and he’s mesmerized by their shapes and form and color. Each one different and unique. Rage burns hot at the angel’s mark at the smoothness of Dean’s skin. All Dean’s scars are missing, those beautifully written stories carved on Dean’s skin that he’d uncovered slowly, the ones he’d left himself like careful brush-strokes. They’re still pulsing white-hot pain beneath but that’s not enough for Alastair.

*

Lee straddles Dean’s chest, knees pressed against his sides, diving into his neck, her tongue tracing a path along his shoulder. Dean shudders underneath her, his cock straining as he leans his head back to allow her easier access. Her touch turns painful as she bites, tugs, then laps at the wounds she created.

“Mine,” she breathes. “Mine. Nobody else's. Not even _his._ ” Her tiny hand presses against the scar.

Dean oomps as she flips him over; she’s strong, stronger than he thought, and that both scares him and excites him.

“And what do you say?” she whispers in his ear, her breath tickling his neck. His brain is somewhat fuzzy, stupid, slow, and before he can properly answer her there’s a sharp pain on his ass. Breath whooshes out of his lungs and he tries to crane his neck to look at her, but she smacks him again with an open palm; it stings, it fucking hurts, and he wiggles on the bed.

“What. Do. You. Say?” she repeats, scooping him up until he’s laying on her lap.

Dean’s mouth falls open automatically to answer but the words don’t come, he doesn’t know what she wants him to say, he doesn’t know - _fuck!_ \- as she swats him again, his ass burning, and he squirms on her lap, cock pressing against her thighs.

“You say you’re mine, too,” she murmurs. “ _Mine._ Do you hear me?”

Dean buries his head in the pillow. He can’t say it. He’s not hers, he’s not anybody’s (he repeats it over and over, nobody owns him, but he knows he’s lying to himself). He’s everybody’s and anybody’s.

“N-no,” he says, shaking his head, then clearing his throat. “No.”

Lee tsks under her breath and she spanks him again, harder this time, enough for him to cry out in pain.

“This can stop,” she says. “This can stop if you just say so.”

Her hand rests on the curve of his ass, thumb teasing the skin with slow, circular movements. The burning - the stinging pain - got to his cock, making it rock hard and flushed red against the paleness of her thigh. She turns him around and stares at it, a pleased look on her face, a corner of her lip upward in a crooked smirk, like she got him exactly where he wanted him. Dean looks at her body, flat stomach and small tits, the nipples red and erect, aureolas dark and narrow. Her eyes are hooded, dark, her arousal a red stain that spreads from her neck to the sides of her face. 

But she’s not even breathing fast, such a contrast to Dean’s heaving chest. He’s lacking oxygen, no matter how much air he gulps down. 

She grips the head of his cock, the movement so fast Dean gets dizzy. He closes his eyes when she scratches at the slit with a nail. She keeps at it, palm and fingers fast around his cock in a loose hold, no friction to get Dean off.

“Just say so,” she says again, but there’s a dare in her voice this time like Dean’s not strong enough to take it, to take what she wants to give him, and Dean snaps his eyes open. 

She’s smiling, a full stretch of her lips that dimples her chin, and maybe she reads the capitulation in his eyes, _maybe_ , because he has given in, even before he whispers a noiseless yes.

The hand that was on his ass splays against his heart, and Dean wonders if she feels the hard beating in his chest. She surely is, right? It’s echoing in his ears and pulsing at his neck and drowning every other noise.

She follows a path of fingertips to his collarbone, tiny pressure points that let a shiver loose down his spine.

“You look like someone a girl can have fun with,” she says. 

It shouldn’t, but it sounds ominous, sounds like a threat, like something Dean should run from and fast.

But she’s splayed naked and ready under him, skin unblemished and faintly scented of a fruity soap, slender limbs that Dean could snap with a flick of his wrist, no matter how fit she is and how strong she seems to be. Dean shakes his head against the thought, leans more into her hand caressing the pulse point at the base of his neck. He’s being ridiculous. She’d wanted to feed him, before at the bar, and she’d kept his glass full and given his soft smiles, as if Dean’s well-being mattered, as if Dean mattered. And she’s being patient in the face of his freak out; he thinks he loves her a bit for that alone.

She just like to spice it up, that’s all, she only wants to have some fun. Dean used to be able to give a girl her fun. 

He finds a wicked grin that probably comes up wrong and twisted. “That can be arranged,” he says.

Lee’s reaction is immediate: a push of her hip sends him on his back with a oomph, and then she’s straddling him, legs holding at each of his sides bracketing him, hovering just out of reach for a long moment as if Dean’s a feast and she doesn’t know where to start. 

She dips her head and latches on his nipple. She bites on it, harder than Dean likes, but she’s already made clear that she likes it a bit rough and he settles into the pain fast, his body answering to it. He’d gone softer earlier, too caught in his fucking brain, but now he’s hard again and needing contact. She seems to know what he’s thinking before he even articulates the needs, because she grabs his wrists in a single hand and flushes them onto the mattress above his head. 

A harder bite, all teeth and stinging makes it clear that she wants him to stay put even before she licks her way up to his neck. Her voice is a slow caress of tongue and breath in the shell of his neck. “You able to stay still or do you want me to tie you up?”

Dean’s not sure if it’s a joke or not, he’s not even sure what he wants it to be. He moans, though, loud and needy, back thrusting up to find her body. She keeps herself out of reach, close enough that the warmth of her skin sets all of Dean’s nerve endings on fire, but not enough to grant him contact. 

“Dean?” she asks. But Dean can’t speak. He can’t. He’s imagining himself tied to the headboard, powerless and hers to do as she pleases. And he’s scared by that thought because he swore he wouldn’t let himself be anybody’s like that. 

He’s sure he’s going to come right now just thinking about it. 

She tickles the inside of his arm, bending to lick at a spot just above his armpit for so long Dean starts to wiggle.

“Settle,” she says, pushing her body flush against his. She’s hot skin and hard muscles and his cock finds a perfect nest in the curve of her hips. He settles. 

“You won’t move, right?” Dean nods without thinking. She lets go of his wrists and Dean stretches upward, finds the headboard and clings to it. She hums her approval against his lips, says, “You’re doing well, sweetheart.” 

A strange kind of pleasure Dean doesn’t think he wants to question spreads to the center of his chest and he relaxes, opens his mouth when she kisses him. 

*

He looks at Dean, eyes unable to mask the pleasure at Alastair’s praises. Needy for them underneath his slow surrender, and Alastair is needy too, having taken Dean under his skin - _his_ no matter what. The temptation to give in is strong, to damage and maim and break Dean past the fragility of his living body. His memory supplies ropes binding Dean’s arms, and muscles bulging with strain, his moans and curses when Alastair made him beg and come. He listens to the fluttering heartbeat under his palm and remembers holding it in his hand, and squeezing it slowly until it stuttered, and Dean along with it. 

*

She seals her lips on his, tongue claiming entrance and getting it, sucking on his tongue and slashing the inside of his mouth like she wants to fuck it. Dean’s so focused on the kiss he doesn’t notice she’s moving until she curls a hand at the base of his cock. She gives an upstroke, so slow it draws a long whine out of Dean. Lee seems to like it because she does it again, her hold get harder and this side of painful, but apparently Dean’s body is perfectly okay with it.

She keeps her slow teasing, stilling at the base when Dean’s ready to come, lips perfectly covering his. Dean’s getting lost in the taste of her, in the languid wiggles of her slender body, in her exploring touch: hips and sides, a small tug at his nipple, a slow brush on the inside of his arm. She stops at his neck, finding his heartbeat. She presses on it lightly, like she’s testing it and Dean gets vaguely alarmed, but she starts stroking his cock again and Dean’s worry dissolves in a whimper. 

She does it again, pressing harder on the pulse point and Dean can’t get air past his throat, not with hands around his neck and cock and her mouth covering his. He should say something, stop her, move his damn hands from where they’re clinging to the headboard and fling her up but he’s listening to the beat of his heart so loud in his ears, to the rush of his blood as it blurs his vision and narrows it down to a tiny spot on the white ceiling. 

He thinks he hears her say something, but he can’t be sure. He lets his eyes drift closed; all he can see is black now, so it doesn't matter anyway. Her lips become more desperate, her grip tighter, and she pants heavily against his mouth, rolling her hips against his.

"Mine," she whispers again, and she kisses the side of his mouth, stealing his one final breath of air before his chest seizes, lungs searching desperately for the oxygen that won't come, and his eyes pop open, his legs kick, and suddenly she releases his throat so quickly that he nearly suffocates anyway. He coughs, ugly noises, dragging deep breaths through his nose, his throat burning with every swallow.

"You're okay," Lee says into his collarbone. Her fingers caress his throat. "You're fine. It's all right, baby."

Dean doesn't know how long it takes to get his breath back, his vision hazy, a feeling of depersonalization that he chases so desperately, that he knows so well. He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, body exhausted and weak.

"I'm not done yet," Lee murmurs. "I don't think you are, either. How about we do a safeword, hmm? I don't like where your head's at, darlin'. I want you here with me."

Dean rolls his head toward her; she's seated firmly on his lap, hands on his chest, but she waits patiently, her eyes almost kind. Her hand cups his cheek, thumb runs along his bottom lip. Then she leans down, kisses his chin. "Righteous."

Dean freezes. "What?"

"Righteous," she repeats. "Your safeword. Say it, and everything ends." She smiles. "If you dare."

"Fuck you," he says, because he doesn't need a safeword, he doesn't need an out, and he certainly doesn't need this woman's pity. With one move, he flips her over so she's on her back; she smiles at him and groans deep in her throat.

"Atta boy," she says, wrapping her legs around his waist. He ruts against her, quickly, without finesse, enjoying her hitches of breath, her closed eyes, her head thrown back. It's not enough, it's never enough, and he slides down her body until his mouth is level with her cunt. She's wet, her pussy hot and constricting as he fucks her with his tongue, tracing the alphabet with careful, slow movements, ignoring how she curses and writhes with every letter. He spells her name, smirking, kissing her clit before he continues, spelling _fuck you_ , taking his sweet time, and judging by the grip she has on his hair, she doesn't miss the message.

But then Dean falters, his grip sliding; he can't do it, he can't take control, he doesn't know when to stop -

It's all right, he thinks Lee whispers, or it might be his own head crooning a tune, and he's gathered in her arms, rocked like a child, soothing words whispered against his brow.

"Let me," she says. "Let me."

Dean goes limp; she manipulates his limbs to her liking, her hands wrapped around his soft cock - when did that happen when did he - and she slowly strokes him back to life, as if his cock is what she lives for, what she needs to touch to stay grounded.

Missed you, he hears. Need you. I need you.

He tries to talk but the words won't come; they stumble awkwardly out of his mouth, a mess, jumbled, and she kisses him, forcing them back down. His nose stays uncovered but he still finds it hard to breathe. It's easier not to.

"Shh," she says, like he has the ability to speak, and she wraps her hand around his dick, keeping it steady as she eases it inside her, taking him inch by inch without flinching, until she's seated firmly on his lap. Like she belongs there. Like she's been there all along.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, rocking slowly, perfectly content with a slow pace. Her pussy clamps around him, keeping him trapped, and he freezes, breath caught in his lungs, but it feels good, sends waves of heat through his veins, through his spine, until he's too hot. He sweats, he pants, and she lifts herself off his dick until she's almost free of him, then slams herself down with a cry; Dean throws his head back, hitting the headboard, but the pain feels good, feels comforting.

Lee presses herself against him, her wet hair tickling his neck, her small breasts firm against his chest. She mouths words against his skin as she snaps her hips, little gasps of breath.

She stops suddenly, still seated on his cock, and she stares, her jaw dropped, her eyes firmly fixed on his. It's suffocating, and he wants to say it but he can't, _righteous_ doesn't deserve to spill from his lips. Still, he's weak, he's pathetic, his eyes burn as he stares right back, as his chest swells with arousal and shame and agony.

"I see you," Lee murmurs. "I see _you._ Like no one else does. No one."

It happens before he can think, before he can suck it back - "Ri -"

"Hmm?" Lee says, moving in closer, until her lips brush briefly against his. "Dean."

"Ri - right -"

She waits patiently, completely still, even though he's still hard inside her. "Baby. It's all right. You can say it. I'll stop."

Dean shakes, his blood on fire, his vision tunneling. He can't see her; she's only a black outline, a void of unending torture. Still, he won't say it. He won't.

"Okay," Lee says. "Okay." She slips off of him with one smooth motion, flips on her back, pulling him on top of her. He has to be crushing her but she doesn't blink. "We can take a moment. It's all right. Shh."

*

Dean had always been good at hanging himself with the rope Alastair fed him. Alastair had thought, those first years, that breaking Dean’s spirit was all he wanted. But it’d be enough to witness his stubborn defiance to know that he’d never wanted to get rid of it. Small, things: a tiny hope in the form of a door left open so that Dean could run for it, foolish and thinking he still had choices. The thrill of getting him back had been the best part of Alastair’s time with Dean.

*

True to her world, she doesn’t push him; she tangles their legs together, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He softens against her hip with a sigh, smelling her vanilla shampoo. The alcohol’s starting to work against him, the haze withdrawing; now he only feels heavy. 

Like she’s reading his mind, Lee says, “Still up for that drink?”

Dean cranes his neck to look at her. “What?”

“That whiskey,” she says. “What, did you just think it was a line?”

“Sort of,” he says, proud of how stable his voice is while his insides quake.

Lee laughs, brushing her lips across his temple before easing out from underneath him. Her fingers trail along Castiel’s scar. “Coming right up.”

While Dean almost feels the need to cover himself with the sheet, she doesn’t bother getting dressed at all, kneeling down to pick up the bottle and taking her time standing back up. She looks over her shoulder, eyes hooded, and gives him a smile before she reaches for a few cups, twirling them with her fingers. 

“Not very sexy,” she says, “but I think we’ll make do.”

She fills his cup rather generously, sipping at her own. “So,” she says. “What’s the problem with your brother?”

Dean downs half the cup. “Brother?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Honey, I’ve seen many people at my bar, and I can always tell. Pretty obvious.” She pokes his calf with her toes.

Dean shrugs and finishes off the whiskey. It’s actually damn good, better than he’s had in a while, and he nods in thanks when she refills the cup. “Nothing,” he says.

“Sure,” Lee sighs, stretching on her back, trailing a hand across her bare stomach. Dean tracks the movement, watching the carefully manicured fingernails. “It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone. Let’s hear it.”

“Not much to tell.”

“Sure there is,” Lee says, turning on her side. “There always is, especially with brothers. Trust me, I know.”

“I normally don’t talk about my brother when I’m fucking someone,” Dean says. “Kind of ruins the mood, you know?”

Lee shrugs; now she’s on her stomach. She toys with the scar again, stretching out her hand on top of it. “Would you rather tell me how you got this?” she says, eyes darkening. She curls her fingers around it, then lets go.

Dean moves until the scar is facing away from her. “Not really.”

“Fine, brother it is.”

“Why are you so interested?”

“I want to make you feel better,” Lee winks. “Obviously I may be failing in other ways...”

Dean lifts a shoulder. “Moving on is all. Thinks he’s better than me.”

Lee raises an eyebrow. “Really. Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t buy that.”

“You don’t even know him. Or me.”

She raises her hands, conceding. “Sure. Sure. Why does he think he’s better than you?”

Dean takes a drink in response. “Kinda messed up, I guess. Me. I dunno.” 

When he stops, she prods him gently. “And?”

Dean’s laugh sounds ugly to his own ears. “You don’t want to know.”

Lee rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t have asked, then. Would you like me to guess?”

Dean stares at the ceiling, seeing burnt blonde hair. “Would love to see you try.”

Lee nods. “Okay, then.” She slides a hand underneath him and tugs; he rolls with the movement, his head on her chest. He protests, struggling, but she palms the back of his head and runs her fingers through his hair again. It’s soothing, and he finds himself going boneless against her.

“Okay,” she repeats, more softly this time. “Someone hurt you.”

Dean snorts against her breast, and she covers his mouth with her other hand.

“Quiet.”

The suggestion is strangely powerful, and he slams his mouth closed.

“Someone hurt you. Badly. Someone who loved you. Told you things about yourself that you didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to believe.”

He freezes, halting his breathing.

“Maybe you started to believe them, I don’t know. Believe that you’re worthless, that you’re not you’re not worth sticking around for. Maybe your brother feels guilty that he wasn’t able to stop it and hasn’t been able to look at you since. Not really. Little brother, right? Thought you were indestructible and he has no idea how to deal with it.”

Dean starts counting the paintings on her wall. One with a sailboat, water a deep blue, a beautiful summer day. Another with two young children laughing and holding hands on a swing set. A third with what looks like a portrait of some sort, an older woman with specks of gray in her hair, her mouth unsmiling.

“You don’t know what to believe now. Maybe the person who hurt you was right. Maybe they only wanted to take care of you. Love you for who you really are. Your brother’s scared, even though he’s acting like he’s the stronger one. You’re scaring him. You’ve never been like this before.”

He wants to tell her to shut up, but his mouth remains stubbornly closed.

“You want someone to tell you that it isn’t true, but you’re the only one saying it. Or so you think. Maybe you haven’t told anybody everything. Maybe you have. Maybe that’s made things even worse.”

Pictures on her desk. A few with women Lee’s age, arms around each other, beers in front of them. Another with an older couple, her parents, most likely.

“You can tell me. I can give you what you need. I won’t be like the others.” Now she lets her hand drift down his neck, his bare back, stroking his spine. “I can take care of you, sweetheart.”

“It was a long time,” Dean finds himself saying into her collarbone. “A long time.”

Lee makes an encouraging noise above him.

He shakes his head. “Why would you be any different?”

“Someone hurt me, too,” Lee says, her voice sounding off. “A long time ago. Long, long time ago. I’ve come to terms with what happened. Embraced it, really. I can help you do the same. Let me help.”

Dean can’t think straight: everything is jumbled and raw in his head. Lee sounds sincere, a tilt to her voice that’s familiar and comforting behind the darkness of his closed eyes. He toys with the idea of letting it out. Words are pushing to the surface and he bites his lips to avoid letting them go. It didn’t serve him well the last time; putting his shame, his failure in the open only made it real. He sees it every day in Sam’s eyes, in the pitiful looks he throws his way, in the lack of trust. He sees the contempt and knows intimately and in vivid red colors how much he deserves it. 

Her soothing motions stop at the small of his back, hand pressing hard just above the curve of his ass. Sweat is cooling on his skin and he shivers. She rubs his back as to warm him, and Dean lets himself mold into her embrace.

“He’s right, you know? My brother.” Dean’s voice is shredded; even the words are scratchy in his throat. “I’m not the same man I was before.”

It feels good to admit it. He thought he was angry at Sam for what he said. Angry for the distance he was putting between them, for the way Sam kept looking somewhere else for that support Dean used to give him easy as breathing, but he knows - he knows, now.

Lee breathes out a long sigh and untangles herself from him. Gently, ever so gently, she puts him flat on his stomach, and he lets her. It’s nice to give up control, to let her arrange his legs and arms the way she wants. He can’t explore that thought too much without feeling his skin go on fire, without thinking of _him_ and how he’d owed Dean completely and for so long Dean stopped knowing, _wanting_ , anything else.

Sensing his distress she puts the filled cup in his hand and he drowns it in the numbing feeling of alcohol burning a path to his stomach. 

“Maybe,” Lee says as she straddles him from behind, “it’s not that bad. Maybe you’re better than before.” And there’s a dreamlike quality to her voice like she’s following a memory that give her pleasure.

Dean shakes his head and puts the empty cup on the floor.

“Believe me,” she says, “there’s nothing I see that I don’t like when I look at you.”

*

It's true, Dean had been his perfect masterpiece, his best success. The blank canvas where he'd drawn to the surface all his fragilities with perfect touches of his scalpel; pretty to look at, Alastair had barely resisted without having him around, without showing him off. It angers him that Dean still hides, like there's shame in what he is, like he can even run from it. Stubborn little boy, he must know it's impossible, must realize, deep down, how better off he was with Alastair. The eagerness of Dean's body, muscle memory stronger than shame, betrays him: the way he yields to Alastair's commands, the reluctant pleasure of Dean's hard cock as he leans into the pain because Alastair taught him its beauty. Better than an admission, and belying all of Dean's protests.

*

Lee follows her statement with a trail of nails along his spine, low to top and back again. Her fingers are sure, finding all the place that make him arch in pleasure and then mold to the mattress. Sam and his truth and his contempt and his pitiful looks are fading away in the haze of alcohol and Lee’s arousing touches. 

Her tongue leaves a parallel trails to her hands, cool and insistent and Dean’s getting hard again. 

“You should embrace it, Dean,” she whispers in his ear, nibbling with her teeth at his earlobe and tickling the sensitive skin of his neck. 

Dean shakes his head. No he can’t, he _can’t_. He’s twisted and wrong and pining for something that should terrify him. Lee doesn’t give him time to can’t help a moan when her other hand start exploring between his legs, his balls, his hole. He wiggles on the bed, pushing his erection flat against the mattress in frustration.

“Shh,” she murmurs and then she splays his leg open and dips between his legs. She fucks into him with her tongue and a finger, keeping him still when he thrashes against her strong grip on his hip. She’s going to leave bruises, red fingertips that Dean’s going to see for a few days when he looks at himself in the mirror. And suddenly he’s back home, back to _him_ tied up and bloody and hurting everywhere and getting hard when Alastair tells him he’s been a good boy.

He tries to reach his dick between his legs, but she won’t have him. “Not, yet, sugar. Stay still.”

She punctuates her order with a hard smack on his ass, and Dean thinks of the bruises, of the red marks all over his body and has to hang onto the headboard so he’s won’t come right then.

“Good boy,” she says, spreading pleasure like a hot flame on his chest. She goes back to his ass, tongue and fingers, the burn pleasant and verging on the side of pain. Dean gets lost in the rhythm of her, fast and hard, and he’s just a body, muscles strained and skin burning and sweat falling from his hair and into his eyes. 

Dean doesn’t know how long she gets going, leaving him posed on the edge, dizzy and wanting to fall. He’s gone into the sensation, a silent part of his brain reacting with a weird thumping of his heart to the danger of leaving himself so open and vulnerable in the hands of a stranger. He’s too gone, so gone, he doesn’t hear Lee speaking, only the hard slap of her open palm like a lightning strike. All nerves on fire.

“Turn around,” she’s saying. “Let me see you.”

He does reacting and she nestles between his legs, pets his sides like he’s a cat, scratching gentle furrows in his skin. 

“You’re so beautiful like this. I knew you were special the first time I saw you.”

He looks down at his body. His skin’s gleaming with sweat, the harsh light of the room showing his pale skin and the red marks she’s left on his body. His cock is filled and flushed and curved on his belly and he arches into her touch when she strokes it. She gives a pull to his balls then her tiny hands curls firm around the base.

“I’d keep you like this forever,” she says, so low like she’s talking to herself, and there’s something in her eyes burning bright and dangerous and pleased that set Dean’s blood on fire.

He’d let her, Dean realizes. His fingers close harder against the slates of the headboard. He’d let her do it. 

“Do you want to come, Dean? Ask me, tell me you want to come.”

"Please," he thinks he says, but his lips are numb. "Please."

"I'm sorry," Lee says, releasing his cock and laying herself flush against him, stealing the breath out of his mouth. "I can't understand you."

"Please," he repeats, more surely this time, but his voice is still dangerously unsteady. " _Please._ "

"Please what?" Lee murmurs, rolling her hips against his groin. "You have to tell me what you mean, baby. I'm not a mind-reader."

The words fumble out of his mouth before he can even take the time to process them. "Let me - please. I -"

Lee stills and he whines low in his throat, an embarrassing sound that makes him slam his eyes shut.

"Dean," Lee says, and her voice is a little deeper, tone reproachful. "What did I say? If you can't say four little words, then you don't deserve it. Say it. _Say_ it, Dean." Her fingers trace his lips and he opens his mouth automatically, sucking on them. The haze is back; he welcomes it with open arms.

"I want to come," he mumbles around her fingers. Then he throws his head back, curling his toes. "Please. Please, _let me come_ -" he has to, he has to right now or he'll be lost, lost in himself or in her, he doesn't know, but he's losing his grip on everything around him. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe he should let himself fade away, disappear -

A tug on his cock, another, a thumb running over the slit, and he's coming, he's coming so hard that his vision goes white; he's going to lose himself after all and it's exhilarating and terrifying. His body shakes, limbs trembling, and he thinks he can feel Lee breathing against his chest but all of the sensations are starting to run together.

_Good. Good boy. My good boy._

"No," he tries to say, but he's too tired; it's easier to lay back and ride it out, gather his wits, _breathe._ He feels used, empty, wrung dry.

Dean opens his eyes when Lee's hand strokes his sweaty forehead, pushing his damp hair to the side. 

"You did so well," she says. "You're beautiful, do you know that?"

He didn't do anything. He gave in, he gave in all over again. Still, he lets her caress his face; she stares at him so intensely, like she's drinking him all in, and his eyes fall shut again.

"You could stay with me."

Dean sorts through the words until they slot into place, and he freezes.

"You're not happy, baby. I can make you happy. Or content. Satisfied. You're hanging by a thread; I can see it. You're going to crash, and it will kill you. You know it."

He knows.

She smiles. "Want something to eat? I can carve a mean turkey sandwich."

She pats his back before he can answer, sliding out of bed and slipping on his button up. It grazes the tip of her thighs and she only bothers to button up a few at the bottom.

When Dean rolls onto his front, he winces; his ass is fucking sore, screaming reminders of how he felt over her lap, humiliated, demeaned, and yet his cock twitches. He takes a breath, wills it down, breathes into the pillow.

He's cold. He's _tired._ But most of all, he's completely useless.

:::

She drives him to his motel after nearly forcing the sandwich down his throat; the taste of mayo sits heavy on his tongue. She drives slowly, five under the speed limit, as if she's giving him time to think it over, as if she's not ready to let him go.

"You can stay," she offers again, putting the car in park outside of his room. The Impala's missing, but Dean didn't expect it to be there, anyway. He's surprised to realize that he's relieved. 

"No," he says, voice hoarse, as if he's been screaming. His throat is sore, painful, frayed.

Lee nods; she already knew.

"Too bad," she says, palming his cheek; then she leans in and kisses him slowly, sweetly, her lips lingering over his. "I think I'll see you again, hmm? Soon, I hope."

"Maybe," Dean says, suddenly not sure if he wants to get out of the car. He puts the face on again, the _no big deal_ face, _I'm fine, fuck off_ , face that doesn't match his weak body, his weak mind. It's harder to do now; he feels open, exposed, like anyone who looks at him him sees everything he's ever wanted to hide. 

"Take care, Dean," Lee says. She looks strangely excited but in a sense like she's trying to hide it with a thin layer of concern. "Remember what I told you. You're more than what you think you are. You'll see."

He doesn't know what to say to that, to any of it, so he nods instead, knowing that she sees what she wants to see. He slams the door closed; she stares at him through the window, unsmiling, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the side of the door. Dean stops, feeling like he should wait, she looks like she wants to say something, roll down her window - then she smiles, putting the car in drive. Still, she doesn't look away for a moment; then she winks at him, backs up the car, and disappears. Dean sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at their motel door.

Sam comes back in the morning; Dean pretends to sleep, one arm shoved under his pillow, hand clutching the knife, but it brings no safety tonight. There's no solace, no protection, because he's been carved open all over again and there's no one there to sew him back up. Nobody but -

His eyes fly open.

*

Alastair plays a moment with the idea of revealing himself, imagines the expression on Dean's face. Like in the church that first time a few months ago. It'd been so sweet to have him in his hands after waiting for so long, living flesh cutting his vessel knuckles and breaking so prettily under his fists. A surprise even for Alastair who kept the memory of Dean close, like a precious little thing. The small absence had faded the perfection of Dean's face, though, and muted the sweet sound of his choked whimpers, and how he'd use to avert his eyes just so, and give himself so completely to Alastair. 

He plays with the idea but he doesn't follow on it. He leaves the girl in the car in front of her building, passed out and used and stinking of sex. Glides away, smoke on black sky, finally free of of the constriction of her body. He'll need a new vessel for when he'll meet Dean again and claim him back. 

Back home. Alastair's promised prize for when his Father will rise.

\--


End file.
